Demons
by CrazyKater
Summary: *Slash* What if Hutch was the one who needed to run. How would he do it and why?


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Sitting shotgun as Starsky negotiated the beat up LDT away from the dilapidated 3rd street bar, Hutch unrolled his window. He closed his eyes and sucked in a drunken breath, but the cold air of the early morning hour did nothing to make him feel more alert. The darkness of the night had already seeped into his soul.

Starsky sighed. The sound heavy with discontent, and Hutch tried his best to ignore it. He had done it again, despite his empty promises to his partner otherwise.

Hutch hadn't been shocked—not really—when Starsky had sauntered into the bar to pick him up. His eyes red and bleary from being woken from deep sleep. His clothes wrinkled from being pulled out of the hamper and thrown back on.

The bartender had called Starsky…again. Hutch thought he had a vague memory of hearing the older man growling something like, ' _come pick up your friend. He's not gonna make it home on his own,'_ into the black phone receiver.

And entering the bar, his face emotionless but eyes shining in disappointment, Starsky didn't say a word.

Hutch gulped down the last of his shots as Starsky indicated at the door. His hand lingered in the air, palm up, waiting for Hutch to hand over his car keys.

"Hutch…" Starsky's soft voice broke through the silence of the LTD.

His eyes still shut, Hutch heard the flick of the turn signal followed by the incessant clicking of the car's blinker. Starsky didn't continue speaking but Hutch didn't notice, too focused on the annoying fragmented sound of the blinker. One more item in the old beat up car that didn't work properly.

Completing the turn, Starsky blew out a fierce breath and switched the blinker off putting a stop to the agonizing sound. "Piece of shit," he mumbled disgruntledly.

And in spite of Starsky's unhappiness with the vehicle, Hutch smiled.

The LTD may be dirty and dented, it may be broken and irrelevant to Starsky, but Hutch loved the car dearly. Its brokenness making it beautiful in his eyes. Something Hutch prayed someone would learn to say about him.

"You know you can tell me anything right?" Starsky's tired voice whispered.

"Yeah."

"If you wanted to drink tonight," Starsky continued. "We coulda drank…" his voice dropped to a low whisper. "I'm here, Hutch."

Except for you're not. Hutch wanted to say. Not really and not the way Hutch really needed him to be. Mostly because Hutch wasn't sure what exactly it was he needed from Starsky.

And as much as Starsky was there and said he knew what he was going through, Hutch was absolutely sure that deep down Starsky did _not_ know. Not really, and for that Hutch was grateful.

Vanessa's death—in Hutch's apartment by his own gun—had changed everything, including the fierce love the men had for each other. Her sudden violent departure serving as a perfect catalyst to reawaken memories of the past and Hutch's deepest secret.

Vanessa's death had unraveled Hutch. Something neither he nor Starsky had seen coming, mostly because after Vanessa's death Hutch had been fine. Well, maybe not _fine_ , but he was getting on with his life. He seemed normal. They were normal.

In fact, it had been six months before Hutch even realized how much the events had affected him. But when he did, there was no way he could go back as desperately as he wanted to, and Hutch began transform one small step at a time.

The first thing Hutch had done was kick Starsky out of his bed.

 _'I need some time,_ Starsk,' he had said. _'Just to sort some stuff out._ '

Starsky had been great—really—he told Hutch he understood. That he could have all the time he needed. Starsky assured Hutch he'd still be around when he was ready to be together again. And Hutch pretended not to see the pain in his partner's eyes.

The second thing Hutch had done was acquire a new look.

Hutch remembered showing up in the squad room, bright blue bowler shirt and the beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip. Starsky had thought it was a joke.

 _'You can't be fucking serious_ ,' his partner had chuckled. ' _Hutch… you look ridiculous.'_

But Hutch was serious.

His fully grown mustache and his new array of what Starsky referred to as ' _the ugliest shirts he'd ever seen'_ were proof of that.

' _What happened to the plaid, babe?'_ Starsky had asked him one day, his voice dangerously close to begging. ' _You looked so good in plaid_. **_Plaid was you_**."

Hutch recalled wondering how someone could describe a single material as being representative of a person. Starsky's words, although intended to encourage, had done little but leave Hutch aching and insecure.

How could he possibly explain to his partner of seven years how much he was hurting, and how plaid shirts and shaven faces were all somehow connected to his misery and confusion? They were representative of his past and Hutch longed to look forward to the future.

Aching with unseen pain, Hutch began grasping at things that in the end would do little to sooth his soul.

New wardrobe. New mustache. New fuck-all attitude. The only things Hutch could come up with to combat the overwhelming sinking feeling that had wormed its way under his heart and soul.

As if walking around in a constant state of exhaustion and depression wasn't enough, there were the old fears to contend with.

The things Hutch shouldn't think about or let seep into his life. Things he thought he had handled. Dealt with. Erased. He was, after all, an educated, successful man. These things shouldn't haunt him anymore.

Except they did.

The worst part was that these where the things Hutch couldn't share with Starsky. The ones Hutch held so close it his soul that he didn't think he would ever be able to share them out loud. And even if he did, complaining about his past seemed ridiculous when Hutch thought about the trauma Starsky had lived through.

Starsky had lost his father, for _Christ sake_. Starsky been sent cross country at the age of 12 to live with family members he hardly knew. Starsky been in the _war_. If either of them had cause to suddenly pick up and run with the ghosts of their pasts, it was most certainly Starsky. Not Hutch. Not him at all.

Because, really, what _did_ Hutch have to feel haunted by?

He had a good upbringing. He hadn't wanted for anything growing up, except maybe love. But what value did love really have when placed next things like financial security?

A top notch education intertwined with more extracurricular activities than a person could count. That was what Hutch's family had given him. They had made him strong. Capable. They had prepared him for the world. And with all that they had taught him over the years, Hutch knew deep down they had left out something very important. They hadn't taught him how to love.

 _'Nobody will ever really love you, Kenneth. Not even me,'_ Richard Hutchinson had advised his son late one night. His voice heavy with intoxication and a high ball of bourbon held unsteadily in his hand. ' _They will only love what you can do for them.'_

Those words had stuck with Hutch. Weighed on him. Drug him down. And he hated to admit it, but up until this point in his life, his father had been right.

Nobody had ever really loved Hutch—himself included—they only cared about what he could offer them. Vanessa was proof of that.

Vanessa—Christ, Vanessa—Hutch sucked in a deep breath and focused on the cool air.

Vanessa never really loved him. She loved what having the last name of Hutchinson and access to his father's money would offer her. That was, until Hutch threw it all way. She never forgave him for that. She had _left_ him for that. And even in the end, right before her death, Vanessa had only sought respite with Hutch because of the safety she thought he could give her.

Vanessa. His Vanessa. His first love. The woman Hutch thought he would spend the rest of his life with. The woman who left his heart fragmented, soul bruised, and his mind consumed by the overwhelming knowledge that no one would ever love him for who he was. And because of that, Hutch started hiding himself away. Keep your mouth shut and be whoever they need you to be.

Then there was Gillian, the woman who seemed to be as haunted as he. The one who was just as guarded. Their relationship had been a farce. Two broken people trying to make sense of themselves and the world. Clinging desperately to a happy future they had no right to.

Hutch still remembered how he'd felt when Starsky had told him the truth about Gillian being a hooker. He had been devastated, not just because Gillian was dead, but because it was then Hutch thought that maybe they could have worked out. Maybe they could have rescued each other and everything would have been alright.

"Will you roll up that window?" Starsky asked from the driver's side. "It's fuckin' cold in here."

Hutch opened his eyes. Letting go of his memories, he reached clumsily for the silver handle. Struggling to turn it, he leaned forward and watched the window slowly close. His thoughts turned to Abby.

Abby—for someone he had loved so fast and fierce, Hutch didn't really have much to say about her. She didn't know him, not really. Not that it was her fault, Hutch had withheld portions of himself from the beginning.

Beautiful, blonde Abby. From a good upbringing and close family. Hutch had known from the very start they weren't destined to last. Not a bit of her soul was tarnished or broken; her perfection served as constant reminder to Hutch of how damaged he really was.

When Abby finally left, Hutch acted depressed, but deep down he had been relieved. Their breakup somehow cathartic as he no longer had to pretend to be whole.

"Here we are, blintz," Starsky said.

Hutch blinked and looked out the car window. Venice Place stared back at him. The building was illuminated by the light of the moon, and Starsky's bright red Torino was parked out front.

"You drive here first?" His words slurring, Hutch pointed at the car.

"Yeah."

Starsky pulled himself from the car, he stood leaning on the side of the car as Hutch did the same.

"You gonna make it?" Starsky asked as he watched Hutch struggle to walk, almost falling over himself with every step.

"Yep," Hutch assured with a drunken smile.

Starsky handed the car keys to his partner. Gripping Hutch's shoulder he looked at one side of the street and then the other, making sure there were no cars before they walked across.

"You want me to go or stay?" Starsky asked uncertainly once they made it to the front door of the buliding. He fingered his own car keys in his jacket pocket and kicked the worn toes of his tennis shoes on the sidewalk.

"Uh…" Hutch hedged. His gaze dropping to the pavement.

But that was enough of an answer for Starsky, and he ushered Hutch up the stairs.

On the way Hutch considered his partner.

Starsky— the only lover who didn't make sense. Zealous, dependable, passionate Starsky. Why did he offer his love to Hutch so freely without ever wanting anything in return?

Entering the apartment Hutch threw his arms out and slurred an exaggerated, "hello, plants!"

Taken aback by the ridiculous action, Starsky let out a deep chuckle.

"God, I love you," he smiled widely. "You get so crazy when you drink."

Teetering in place, Hutch stared at him in confusion.

Grabbing Hutch by the back of his shoulders, Starsky steered him into the bedroom alcove. It wasn't until he pushed Hutch to sit on the bed and started stripping him of his smoke exposed clothes that Hutch spoke again.

"Do you really, though?" he whispered his voice full of pain. "Even if I can't be who you want me to be?"

Pulling at Hutch's untied sneakers, Starsky hesitated. His blue eyes looking up at his partner.

"Blintz, I love you," Starsky offered. His voice low and serious. "The only thing I want you to be is who you are."

"That's a lie."

"That is the truth." Starsky sat heavily on the bed. Exhaling he ran his fingers through his thick hair, before reaching out his hand to cup Hutch's warm cheek. "Hutch—babe," he continued. "Someday you are going wake up and realize that you have a lot to offer. You're gonna realize how special ya really are and all of this self-doubt is gonna just wash away."

'What do I do until then?' Hutch whispered. He rested his head on his partner's shoulder. He smiled when he felt Starsky's strong arms encircle and pull him into a hug.

"Well, I guess you're gonna have to believe me when I tell you that I think you're pretty damn great… Hutch, you are _not_ broken," he assured firmly. "You are not whatever shit your parents told you when you were growing up. You are worth the work and the effort, and you _are_ worthy of love."

Hutch didn't respond. He didn't believe a word of it. But he allowed Starsky to crawl in his bed. Lifting the covers up inviting Hutch to follow, Starsky pulled his partner into his arms and held him tightly.

Closing his eyes, Hutch heard the beat of Starsky's heart. Steady and comforting. And for that moment he felt whole.

END


End file.
